Chapter Text
"Batman."
It was the first word on his cracked lips.
The first thought in his muddled mind.
His mind, which had been ripped back from... from... from... where?
Where had he gone?
Where was he now?
Who was he?
His brain felt... blurry... was that right? Thinking was difficult. Remembering was harder.
The palm of his hand hit something solid and the pressure came with pain, but it felt oddly... good. Better than being in his brain. Inside was heavy and thick and murky like unevenly strained soup—
chicken noodle or dumpling, young sir?
Outside was sharp—exposed—frayed nerves. Pain, but understanding. There was clarity in the crevices of the... wood? Wood. A board. No, a box.
Even someone with soup brains knew not to be in a box.
It was dark and he checked to make sure he had opened his eyes. Knew how to. Nothing but blackness and a box surrounding him. Suffocating him. Did he know to breathe? Was this breathing? It didn't feel right. It felt like....
Screaming.
Huh.
He could do that too.
So he couldn't see. That was okay. He couldn't think either, and one of those was probably more important than the other. His body was still on fire, all exposed nerves.
He felt for those nerve endings, wanting to shut them off, but only found rough fabric at his fingertips.
Wasn't there supposed to be leather and spandex?
"C'mon. C'mon. C'mon...."
The words sat stuck in his throat on repeat as he flailed, pushed, pried. On instinct alone, his hands went to his pockets, half expecting some sort of tools or equipment.
"Calm... calm down."
It was his voice in the small space, but it felt like someone else's. Someone important. Strong. Sure.
"Not enough air... calm...."
The confusion had him cloudy, but the adrenaline was making short work of that. It called out to old habits, muscle memory. Lessons learned in the dark, just like this.
Well, not just like this.
His hands hovered over his waistline again, feeling for things that should have been there. Instead, he brushed metal. Gripping the belt, he yanked and twisted and grunted until the buckle broke loose.
He was still talking, muttering, telling himself what to do.
Like the adrenaline wasn't already doing that for him. It pushed the panic down. Pushed him to survive.
Because that was what he needed to do, right?
Survive. Always. No matter what.
Beat the bad guy. Save the good. And get back home to—
Bruce.
No.
Batman.
Couldn't be Bruce yet. He needed Batman still, down there.
His nails gave way before the wood did, breaking and bleeding as he tore first at the box's lining with the belt. As he scratched at the box with the buckle. As it broke. Forced to use his fingers.
The pine splintered and then cracked, and suddenly dirt poured in around him.
It was like digging and punching and swimming all at the same time, but through dense, wet, mud. And no air. Or light. Or any way of knowing how much further there was to go.
How much longer he could hold his breath.
"Five minutes, 56 seconds. You are gaining on Batman himself."
"What's his best time?"
"I'll tell you when you surpass it."
His hand shot up, the sudden lack of resistance so surprising, he almost opened his mouth. His fingers stretched above the surface as his other fist fought its way free.
And then... he was, finally, finally...
"Out."
His voice sounded different outside. Still raspy and hard and lower than it was supposed to be—used to be?
Something was pelting his muddy skin and he readied for a fight, finding only rain.
The new world around him was tunneling a little, twisting and tilting as it so slowly came into focus. But none of that mattered.
Not the rain, or the world, or the pain.
"Bruce."
The name was important. The most important. Attached to something—someone?
"Bruce isn't here. I'll take you to him."
He startled, shoving at the voice that was too close. Someone was clutching him, holding him up, and he hadn't even realized.
"Bruce."
Whatever or whoever was attached to this word should have been there. That felt right. Felt certain. Batman—Bruce—it—he—was supposed to find him. Or he was supposed to find Batman-Bruce.
"Jason? Are you okay?"
The question felt too big. Too much.
He could feel his wounds, could categorize them and list the basics of treatment.
But his inside felt just as bad as his outside. And that couldn't be quantified.
"Come on, I'll take you to a hospital."
He staggered a step backward. He wasn't supposed to go to those. They asked big questions too and got mom in trouble and would take him away and people would find out someone's secret.
"Bruce."
Words had come easier underground. When there weren't so many sounds and sky and rain and stranger. Though, he didn't know much of what he was saying down there.
He wasn't so sure he knew now.
"Hey! Look at me!"
The stranger made a loud sound and he swung around toward it.
"Do you... know who you are?"
Too big again.
He focused on the dirt coating his throat. The flakes filling his nostrils. He felt soaked through and dried out all at the same time.
"You're hurt. Bad. You need medical attention."
Something slotted into place. He could smell rubbing alcohol and antiseptic. Felt the sting of both the swab and of someone's heavy words. Warnings of chandeliers and swinging and following in somebody's brother's footsteps.
"Bruce... my... my dad..."
"I know who Bruce is. Do you know who you are?"
He didn't answer that before. Why was he being asked again? He had figured out Bruce. Wasn't that enough? It felt like too much already.
Air caught in his chest, rattling around until it came sputtering up with some dirt. His feet fumbled underneath him and he tilted to one side. He had worked so hard to get upright, but his body just wanted to bring him back down. Which, honestly, didn't sound so bad. Maybe down would be less pain than upright. Maybe it would be easier.
Something was being shoved toward him and he curled a fist, nearly striking the stranger, and the sweatshirt in his hands.
"This'll hide you a little better."
They were alone, as far as he could see through the storm. There didn't appear to be anything to hide from, but the boy seemed sure, and the sweatshirt felt soft under his own chafed and chewed up fingers.
He didn't fight when soft, bright-colored thing was pulled over his head and arms, finding it warm, too. The stranger knew Bruce, and Bruce was dad and that... meant something.
Enough to have him following the boy. Enough to keep him going when the rain grew harder, and the ground felt farther away, and his legs turned to soggy soup noodles.
Enough for trust.
Enough, for now.